Till’s pencil hovered over the blank page, the tip scratching lightly against the surface as if teasing him. Nothing came. No lines, no strokes, no inspiration—just the mocking emptiness of his own mind. Art block. Again.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration curling in his chest like a caged animal. His sketchbook lay open on the cluttered desk, surrounded by crumpled paper and half-empty coffee cups, all evidence of his sleepless nights trying—and failing—to create something worthwhile. Music drifted softly from his headphones, the only thing keeping him sane.

Across the room, Ivan was sprawled out on his bed, scrolling through his phone without a care in the world. His best friend, his roommate, his completely unattainable something. Till bit the inside of his cheek and turned back to his sketchbook, pressing the pencil down harder.

Lately, his hands seemed to know something he didn’t. When he managed to draw at all, it was Ivan’s face that filled the pages—his sharp jawline, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck, the shape of his stupid, stupid smile. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

And yet, every time he caught himself sketching those familiar features, his pulse jumped. Every time Ivan leaned too close, laughed too loud, or just existed in that effortless way he always did, Till’s stomach twisted in ways he didn’t have the patience to analyze.

"Still having trouble? Maybe you need a break..." Ivan's smooth tone cuts through the silence, and Till practically jumps out of his skin, shooting a look to the man. "I'm fine. Just keep quiet for a few more hours." Till mutters, a weak attempt to keep his thoughts from racing.

What was wrong with him lately? He's never once drawn Ivan (out of spite since the man always begged him to), why could he do it so easily, when everything else felt physically weighing on his soul?

Till doesnt notice Ivan stalking over, peeking over his shoulder until its too late.